He Did It
by KamikazeLove
Summary: On the fateful night of May 23, 2007, Valentine Morgenstern was murdered in his own kitchen...right in front of the eyes of his daughter, Clary. The police are desperate to find the perpetrator, but what happens when every suspect has an alibi...except Jace, who's obviously innocent? And how on earth is he connected to Clary's dad? Rated T for violence and mature themes.


**Good evening. I am looking for a beta for this story, so if you are interested, please PM me or leave a review.**

**This story is and will continue to be a bit OOC due to the fact that all are mundane and their life situations have shaped their characters over their lives. And, obviously, it's AU. Please review!**

* * *

_March 23, 2007. 9:03 pm, EST_

_Lincoln Cemetery, New York City, New York_

Jace Herondale stumbled through the graveyard, vaguely noting in his drunken state of mind that the brightly colored bouquets of flowers looked wrong against the depressing grey headstones, somehow. In fact, everything looked wrong. The grass was a cheery color of green, freshly cut. The night sky above him was crystal clear and the stars looked like diamonds scattered across a canvas of black velvet, twinkling and beautiful. Cars whizzed by on the street just outside the cemetery, thousands of people going on with their business, oblivious to the very drunk 17-year-old boy tripping among the grave stones, acting as if they had no idea he was about to give himself up to the horrific memories of the events of five years ago.

The boy stopped abruptly at one of the markers, sucking his breath in through his teeth. His golden eyes widened in alarm and panic, the harsh beams of the floodlights stationed around the graves turning his hair into a halo of gold. He stepped forward, reaching out as if to brush his hand over the rough stone—and fell to the ground on his knees. He stared. It was as if a pit of despair and pain had opened up in his veins, but the only feeling that managed to surface was numbness. He could feel the agony trying to find its way to the surface of his mind, of his heart, of his entire being. But, like a drug, the shock had settled itself in his blood, making him numb and unfeeling.

It had been five years. Five years since it all happened. Five years since he'd come home to find his parents dead. He'd been twelve then, but the grief was still fresh. Would it ever dull?

* * *

"_Mom!" Jace called, carefully hanging his brown corduroy jacket on the brass hooks near the garage the door. "Mom, Dad, I'm back from karate!"_

_He frowned at the eerie quiet that had seemed to settle over the house. Slipping out of his boots, he padded into the kitchen, looking around anxiously. Something was wrong, he knew. He could feel it resonating in his bones. He left the kitchen and went into his father's study, sliding the glass doors open carefully. His father did not like to be disturbed when working, and often reprimanded Jace for being noisy in the house. Jace peeked in. He wasn't there. _

_He frowned and entered the room, noticing a large white box on top of the desk. He opened it and found a card addressed to him on it._

"_To Jace. With love on his thirteenth birthday, from Mom and Dad."_

_Jace grinned and glanced around him, the sense of wrong evaporating. He knew he shouldn't look…but it was so tempting, and he could always act surprised, right?_

_He unwrapped the tissue paper and founding a wonderful, new, black leather jacket folded carefully in the box. Excitement swelled within him, flooding into his chest. A real leather jacket! And a black one! He'd gotten exactly what he'd asked for. He just had to wait a week to put it on._

_He wrapped the jacket back up and put the box back in its original position, his expression smug. What he wouldn't give to wear that jacket now._

_He left his father's study and padded down the hallway, wondering if his mother was asleep. Her car was parked in the driveway, so she had to be home. Quietly, he turned the knob on the door and artfully rearranged his features to betray no sign of his inward excitement about his birthday present. His mother would take one look at his expression and know that he'd peeked. And then she'd be disappointed, and he couldn't bear that. He hated disappointing people, especially her. He pushed the door open—_

_And fought back a scream._

_His mother was in the room, but her eyes were not closed. Both of his parents were in the room, in fact, both pairs of eyes wide with fear and panic, both pairs of eyes clouded and unseeing. Their faces were blue and bloated, looking like something from a horror film, and their heads hung at odd angles. There was a cable tie tied tightly around their necks, cutting off their air. They hung from the ceiling fan, their hands clasped together in death. _

_Jace stood and stared at them in shock and horror and disbelief. Surely this was a nightmare. Surely this wasn't happening. He noticed his mother's side had been bleeding, and there was a trail of blood on the floor, leading up to the wall._

You're next, Angel boy.

_Jace swallowed and ran back to his father's den, hoping fervently that if he went back there, maybe, somehow, all this would be reversed. Maybe if he was back in the last place he'd been happy, his parents would be alive and nothing would happen. But when he finally reached the den, he realized that they were gone. That they'd left him. That they were never coming back. _

_With trembling hands, he took the black leather jacket out of its box again and enveloped himself in it, trying to find comfort in the satiny folds of the lining inside in vain. He crawled under his father's desk and huddled there, hiding from the world, his parents' birthday note clutched in his pre-pubescent, shaking hands._

_He got to wear the jacket before his birthday, after all._

* * *

By the time the neighbors had found him, he had been starving and incredibly thirsty, but he couldn't bring himself to move from his hiding spot under his father's desk, couldn't let go of the last time his mother and father had said _I Love You_. He remembered, as he knelt there before his parents' grave, how the lady who'd lived across the street, Mrs. Kay, had found his parents first. He remembered her scream of horror, and then he remembered her calling his name, her voice panicked. Mrs. Kay had been good friends with his parents and had often babysat him. He remembered how she'd finally found him, pale and wide eyed, under the desk.

She'd tried to pull him into her arms, but he'd yelled at her. He didn't want anyone to touch him. The police department had finally dragged him screaming from the house.

His birthday card had fallen out of his hands.

Jace dug his fingers into the grass, looking despairingly at the etched words, _Stephen and Celine Herondale. May the angels in heaven bless you and may you rest in the knowledge that your little boy is safe. D. May 20, 2002._

"Mom," he finally spoke, his voice cracking. "Look at what I've turned into, Mom."

His despair turned to anger. "You want to know what I just did? I got drunk and I had sex with some random girl whose name I don't even know. I don't even care. I don't care about her feelings, or about Mr. Morgenstern's feelings, or anybody's feelings. I don't even care about my own feelings. I don't even know if I can feel anything anymore. I think you and Dad took those with you when you left me. And you know the worst part? About your death? They haven't even found the murderer yet. The case has pretty much been shelved. It's the only thing keeping me from killing myself.

The hope that one day, I can kill whoever killed you."

* * *

_March 23, 2007. 9:00 EST_

_Morgenstern Residence, Brooklyn, New York_

"Mom, I'm home!" 15-year-old Clary Morgenstern called into her apartment, dropping her keys in the hand-woven basket near the door.

There was no answer, and Clary frowned. She heard a crash come from the kitchen, and subsequently tiptoed toward the noise. "Mom?"

The lights were off, but she could make out two shadows, the outlines of men, near the sink. One fell to the floor with a sort of gurgle, and the other one turned slowly to face her, the moon shining in through the kitchen window and creating a halo on his white-gold hair. She couldn't see his expression, and she didn't know who he was.

She stared at him, horrified, barely noticing the large pool of blood spreading rapidly around the man, who she assumed to be dead.

"You're lucky, little girl," the man in the window said, leaping up onto the sink. "You still have one parent. If you'd been here earlier, you might have suffered the same fate as your father here."

The man leapt out the window, landing gracefully on the fire escape and taking off, leaving his words to ring in Clary's disbelieving ears. She looked at the man on the floor in horror. She crept closer, her eyes filling with tears.

"Daddy?" her voice was no more than a whisper as she knelt next to her father, turning him over. She gasped and clapped a hand over her mouth, fighting down the bile that rose in her throat. Her father's throat had been slit, and he was definitely dead.

She jumped back up and backed away, barely registering that someone was screaming. In fact, it took her a good five minutes to figure out that she was the one who was screaming. It was a loud, incredibly high pitched scream. She turned and ran into her mother's room. Her mother seemed unharmed, but she was lying on the bed, passed out. Clary ran to her mother and shook her wildly. "Mom!" she cried out. "Mom, wake up, please. It's Dad, he—" she choked on her own words.

Her mother wasn't waking up and Clary had the horrible thought that maybe her mother was dead too. She pressed her fingers to her mom's throat. Her mom was alive. She had a pulse. The man who killed her father must have knocked her out.

Clary pulled her cell phone out of her pocket and dialed 911.

* * *

_May 23, 2007. 9:10 pm_

_Bridgewater, New Jersey_

"What can I get for you today…Mr. Morgenstern?"

The hooded figure in the black sweatshirt tossed a Payday candy bar on the counter. "Call me Jonathan, please."

The sales girl blinked once in surprise and then smiled. "All right, Jonathan. Will that be all?"

The boy in black nodded and handed her a five dollar bill. "Keep the change," he said, his voice measured, low and seductive.

The girl watched him curiously as he stalked out of the convenience store and tossed the candy bar in the trash.

* * *

_May 24, 2007. 2:49 am_

_Manhattan, New York_

Jace stumbled up to his apartment door, preparing himself for his foster father's tirade. Valentine Morgenstern did not appreciate it when he was out until the wee hours of the morning drinking and having sex with random girls. No, he didn't appreciate it at all.

Not, Jace mused, like he had any room to talk. His foster father was rarely ever home, always claiming to be on business trips. Maybe he wouldn't be home tonight.

He tripped over the threshold and deposited his keys in his black leather jacket, shoving his hands in the pockets. "Valentine?" he called out.

No answer. Good, he wasn't home.

Jace wandered tiredly into the living room, collapsing on the couch. He ran his hands through his damp hair, muttering curses about his life. He wondered how he could have ended up like this. He'd been a promising kid, once. He had real athletic talent, that much was sure, and he'd nearly worshiped his karate instructor. He was very intelligent. His parents had tried to convince him to skip a grade or two of elementary school, but he'd refused. He enjoyed school. Why would he have wanted to get out earlier? There was no denying he was attractive.

How did he end up like this?

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door. Jace groaned and got up. Who on earth could be knocking on his door at three in the morning?

He opened the door, stepping back in surprise when he saw the police standing there, looking angry.

They seized him and he heard the click of handcuffs encircling his wrists. What?

"Jonathan Herondale, you are under arrest for the murder of Valentine Morgenstern."

* * *

**So what do you think? I need your reviews so I can decide whether or not to continue. And if you guys want lemons, let me know, and I'll change the rating to M, possibly. If enough of you want them bad enough,**


End file.
